|
CIRCUS MACABRE Something
caught Isabeau’s eye, a sudden movement out of the window. It was the village
children gamboling and dancing. It reminded Isabeau of something, a long distant
memory. She went back to plucking the chicken, then it clicked. The Circus
Macabre. How could the children be mimicking the Circus Caper? None of them were
old enough to have witnessed the last dread visit by the Circus. Without knowing
exactly why, she opened the widow, then heard the fearful sound of the
barrel-organ in the distance. The
Village was in trouble now! It’s defences had declined years ago, falling into
disrepair after the last Circus visit became more Old Wive’s Tale than memory.
Rushing
to her household shrine she grabbed the priceless relic of her pilgramage to
Papa Sabbato. Opening the miniature coffin, the Husk-Sprite was dormant, but
revival was still possible. Would it work? She closed the coffin again, and
prayed to Papa Sabbato, while rattling the box, willing the Sprite to grant her
a happy coincidence. To
her horror not one but two caravans came into view. The coincidence had not gone
in her favour. The caravans drew closer, the music louder, she could hear the
turn of the wheels. Still rattling the Husk-Sprite, still praying to Papa
Sabbato, she could make out the occupants of the caravans – in one, Twisted
Clowns and The Grand Guignol of The Evil Puppetmaster in the other. Two
Circuses. The
village was surely doomed. Then to Isabeau’s surprise, the Puppetmaster waved
his stick, and on that signal, his retinue of dolls and puppets fell upon the
Clowns, tearing chunks out of their pasty white flesh with their needle sharp
teeth. The Clowns, far from powerless retaliated.
|
|
|